Anything That Bleeds
by mypedia
Summary: Natasha is a sub, but with a steady supply of an inhibiting drug, she's been able to hide it. Suddenly her secret's not so secret anymore.


It's a cold Monday morning when it all goes to hell. Tuesday the 19th, to be exact. Natasha supposes she should have expected it, her record considering- the last time she'd had a Tuesday the 19th, she'd ended up with a pair of broken ribs, and a nice stab wound to match. The time before that, her cover identity had been blown and she'd been forced to sprint through Prague with nothing but a butter knife and a shaving razor. So really, this isn't a huge leap, and when Clint corners her before their mission, looking as if he's expecting her to bite his head off, she's not surprised.

"What?" she asks suspiciously.

"Listen. Don't freak out." He's trying to act controlled, but she sees his foot is tapping against the floor, betraying his nerves.

" _What?_ " she growls, because Clint is nothing if not calm under duress, and for him to be this worried to tell her means it's bad.

"Don't freak out," the switch repeats.

"No promises."

"So you know how I've been getting you your monthly Substop?" he hedges. She inclines her head stiffly, her heart sinking. "And you know it's very illegal."

"You don't want to get it anymore." Her tone is flat. Okay. Okay. This is… unexpected, from Clint, but it's fine. She has sources-

Clint sighs with what sounds like exasperation. "No. I _can't_ get it anymore." As her eyes widen minutely, he adds hastily, "Not for the time being."

Natasha's body tenses, forehead creased as she searches his face for signs of a joke. "What do you mean you… How can you not, I- I don't…"

"Nat, listen to me." He grasps her arms just below her shoulders and squeezes gently. "I'm trying, okay? The crackdown's been crazy. SHIELD just shut down the only remaining supplier this side of the Atlantic; there's basically not a gram of the stuff left in North or South America-"

"Then we go to Europe." She shrugs out of his grip. "It's okay, I can just, I don't know, take a flight or something. You can cover for me? Yeah, that'll work. I'll go. Today. Now. Yeah, I'll go now."

His hands are back on her arms. They feel cold, are they cold? She notices raised goosebumps on her own arms. That's funny, she doesn't feel cold.

Clint's speaking softly, in that low-pitched, soothing Dom tone, and she wants to slap him for it. "Calm down. Cool it, okay, I've got this. Just give me a couple of weeks, alright? I can dig up an alternate stream… a few small shipments'll probably start coming in after the weekend."

"But that's…"

"I'll have it in less than two weeks. And you must that have that extra from last time leftover, right?" His fingers skim over her hair as she nods, concern radiating from the gesture. "Okay? So can you go ten days or so?"

She nods again, side-stepping him neatly as she catches sight of Tony entering the room. The damn sub is too nosy for his own good- something that had gotten him a spanking from both Pepper and Steve on multiple occasions- and the position they'd been in was decidedly too dom-sub for him not to ask questions. Clint follows her gaze, draws back from her and greets Tony with an easy grin, starting up a conversation about his new high-tech bow. Natasha's heart is racing too fast for her to be able to hear much more than the roar in her ears.

She lied. She doesn't have the extra he'd given her last month. It finished last night in a dose that she can already feel wearing off. She'd used it up, because they'd gone on more missions this month and she'd been wearing thin, and she thought she'd be getting more in a few days; she hadn't known….

Ten days, ten days, ten days. She can go ten days. Ten days without dropping. It's possible. Maybe. If she doesn't get agitated between now and next weekend.

Tony can't do it. He drops after basically every fucking mission, leaving Steve or Clint or Banner or Thor to deal with him. She's a little jealous of that actually, because everyone else on the team has dommed for Tony andy Clint, and it's not fair because she can never take part- or never wants to, really. The Substop doesn't give her dom biology; it just inhibits her sub impulses, She's tried, but even on extra Substop she doesn't get any satisfaction out of domming for Clint. She had to lie and say the Red Room had drummed any inter-Bearing relationships out of her when a very hurt Tony had confronted her about her refusal to help him through a post-mission subdrop. What could she have said? 'Sorry, Stark, but the problem is, I'm a sub too and I don't think I would've been much help'. She doesn't even enjoy sex, although it's not quite like she misses it.

Tony may drop after every mission, but she's not Tony. She's been trained for this, trained to push down her base instincts and project whatever she wants. Clint hadn't even realized she was a sub until three weeks into her acquisition by SHIELD. This is hardly out of the range of things she's had to do before, for the Red Room, or on covert ops. She can do this. Ten days, no dropping.

She steels her shoulders and moves forward to join Clint and Tony. Both men shift a little to open into a little semi-circle. Clint brushes against her shoulder and gives her a small reassuring smile, which she returns, hoping it doesn't look as shaky as she feels.

It's fine. She can do this. Ten days.

She tries to ignore the little pit of guilt weighing in her stomach from lying to Clint, who presented as a dom to her.

The mission goes to hell, doing an excellent job of keeping to its preceding Tuesday the 19th's traditions. 'Going to hell' isn't a strong enough description. It's a fucking trainwreck. Guards with more advanced weaponry than they'd been prepared for, incorrect information, out-dated maps with doors that should be there _but aren't, Tony, what did he want her to do about that?_ To top it off, the security somehow knew they were coming, and managed to ambush Clint and Thor, giving both a healthy amount of injuries.

So yes, all in all, a fucking trainwreck.

By the time Natasha and Steve manage to bust through the inner chambers- only a split lip, couple of cracked ribs, a sprained wrist and a spattering of cuts and bruises between them, meagre worry compared to the state of Clint and Thor- they're both just about done with this mission, ready to retrieve the papers and get _out_. Intel- shitty as it is- says there's one safe in the room in front of them containing the papers, which should be a quick enough job.

So when Steve smashes his shield against the lock and she kicks open the door, neither are prepared for the hinges to swing back and reveal a dreary, dimly-lit, dormitory-style room. Six rickety dressing tables. Six half-open, filmy windows. Six wrought-iron beds. And six little girls dressed in lace nightgowns huddled against the far end of the room, eyes wide and frightened.

"Shit," Steve swears.

"What?" Banner's voice pipes up immediately over the comms. "I just changed back; do you need the big guy again?"

Neither answer him.

Steve edges closer to the girls while Natasha stands stock-still, just staring at the children. Fuck. Fuck. No. Fuck. Not today. She can't deal with this today. She can feel the flashes of memories curling at the edges of her consciousness, and she's not willing to let this take her down, today of all days. The mission goes to hell in a hand-basket. Clint and Thor get ambushed. They stumble into what is apparently a child-trafficking ring. She's out of Substop. _And_ she lied to Clint.

Why did she have to be born a fucking sub.

Steve's already at the far end with the girls; he glances back, his expression urgent. "Natasha, I need you to help me with this!"

"Cap, do you need backup?" Tony, over comms.

"No, we're fine," Natasha answers for him, willing her vision to clear as she strides over to the girls. "We have a situation. Are all the guards taken care of?"

"Reports!" Steve orders, grabbing two of the girls and swinging two others onto his back. Natasha lets one more climb onto her back, then hefts the last girl onto her hip.

"Barton is injured worse than I first reported," comes Thor's voice. Natasha panics- "He's fine. He will make it, but we will be of little help."

"Security?" Steve presses.

"Took them all out," the god replies grimly.

"Good. Stark, Banner?"

"All clear from my standpoint, Cap!"

"Yeah, the big guy took care of the last of them."

Steve nods, satisfied. "Alright. Meet you at the extraction point. We have a few young extra passengers today." The meaning of his last statement is not lost on anyone, if the silence over comms is anything to judge by. "Nat, you good?"

"Peachy. Take care of yourself, dinosaur bones."

"Okay, really?" he snipes as they make their way through the halls, both on high alert for any remaining security. "Dinosaur bones? That the best you can do?"

"Extenuating circumstances," she replies, setting the girl in her arms down so she can quickly knock out a guard that's woken up. "All clear. Ask me again after mission, I'll come up with something better." In one move, she picks up the child again, patting the knee of the other one on her back to make sure she's okay.

"Don't listen to him, Romanoff!" Tony's voice is gleeful. "Dinosaur bones is pitiful, but given the current situation I'd give it a B+ at least."

"Your standards are dropping," Steve shoots back, tapping Natasha on the shoulder. He gestures down the hallway to their right. Understanding immediately, she shrugs off both girls clinging to her and springs into the hallway.

It's one punch to incapacitate the first guard, a flying kick to send the second into a wall, and she darts back and gets the girls. One, two, three.

"Clear. So what is it, Rogers, do you prefer Capsicle?"

"Hey!" Tony objects immediately. "That's mine!"

"You can share," Natasha says smoothly. "Not like you have a copyright on it." A telling pause. "Stark. You didn't!"

"What?" He has the grace to sound defensive as Steve's mouth drops open beside her. "I patent things for a living; it was force of habit!"

Natasha doesn't know whether to grin or throw her hands up in the air. She settles for the former upon seeing Steve's affronted face, but a hysterical, almost choked laugh bubbles out of her instead.

It draws his attention instantly. "Are you okay?" His voice is knowing. Fuck him.

"You never saw the Red Room, did you?" she murmurs, ensuring she comes across amused, as they continue through the winding building. Almost to the jet, almost to the jet…

"No."

"Mmm." She knows exactly how to manipulate her voice so it conveys equal parts condescending 'Of course you didn't' and 'Wouldn't have expected any different'. "That back there? Pretty much a five-star hotel compared to what I got. Trust me, this isn't dredging up anything."

Lies.

There were hand-cuffs attached to the bedposts. The girl on her hip has cracked lips. The ankles of the one clutching her neck have been chafed with rope, and her wrists are red and raw. But most of all, it's their eyes. Frightened. Full of unbridled terror. Just as Natasha's had been many many years ago, before the Red Room tortured it out of her and replaced it with a blank, empty stare, waiting for Clint to breathe life back into her.

"There's a med-jet coming in for the… young passengers," Banner announces over comms. "Drop them to the right of our jet."

Steve and Natasha respond with the affirmative. From there it's quick work to unload the girls into the arms of SHIELD medical agents, fearful and compliant as they are. Natasha almost can't tear herself away, but she forces herself to follow Steve without so much as a glance backwards. She's _fine._

Back on their own jet, she pushes past Cap; the man's walking too goddamn slowly. The mission's over, she needs to see Clint, and she wants a hug.

Fuck that last part.

"Clint?" she calls out, moving swiftly to the back of the jet. She knows, logically, that he's okay, he's fine, his injuries aren't that severe, but it's a struggle to force herself not to devolve into a panic. To his credit, Steve's just a few steps behind her. "Barton!"

"He's fine, you over-protective Dominants." Tony's smirk is a little too cheeky. "He's on the med-jet; you must've walked right by him in your apparent haste to get back here." He's loving the irony.

Natasha's eyes fly to the window- and shit, there goes the med-jet. Perfect. Just. Fucking. Perfect.

Steve notices her expression, giving Tony a reproaching look that's met with a blinding grin. For once, Natasha realizes with a start, Tony doesn't seem to be dropping. It makes sense- this mission wasn't particularly difficult for him… he'd been their eyes on the roof, taken out a few goons and let out Banner. Practically a Level One task.

Still, Steve casts his gaze critically over the sub. "You okay?" He lays a hand on Tony's shoulder, and the man leans into his touch with a quiet sigh and a nod. Natasha tears her eyes away from the scene. but not before she feels a stab of pure, unadulterated _longing_ swelling up from deep within her.

She's not going to do this. She won't. Natasha wrenches open the door at the back of the plane where they keep the supplies, slinks down into the furthest seat, and rests her head against the cool metal. the vibrations from the plane taking off thrumming uncomfortably into her skull. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

She's gotten through drops before, with the Red Room. It was a necessary skill, although one she hasn't used in a good ten years or so. She's going to drop no matter what, she knows that, but at least she can put up a front until she can get back to her room in the tower.

Maybe she'll get through this after all.

Fuck, she's dying.

There's a current of distress running through her veins, leaving her miserable and tired. She's so _sore_ , and the weight in her stomach hasn't settled- in fact, it's gotten worse, fuck this all- and the teasing conversation she can barely make out coming from the main compartment of the jet isn't helping anything. Her head hurts; her eyes hurt. She digs the heels of her palms into her eyelids, willing herself to calm down.

This is biology. Mind over matter. Come on, Romanoff.

Romanova.

Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

Red Room.

She'd looked exactly like those girls. Had she really been that afraid?

Her breathing begins to speed up as the memories flash before her: the handcuffs. The dormitory-style beds. Killing Rita. Killing Sveta. The church. The college. The children's hospital. Наталья. Молодцы, Наталья. _Well done, Natalia. New mission, Natalia._

New mission new mission new mission new mission new mission new-

Natasha's heart is beating quickly, the unsteady _thump-thump-thump_ slamming against her rib-cage almost painfully. She's not only dropping; she's crashing, the result of ten years of no drops reaching a crescendo and pouring over her.

Her muscles tense as Tony drops into the seat beside her. She hadn't even heard him open the door.

"Tut, tut, no seatbelt?" She doesn't point out his obvious lack of one. He's close, but she wants touch. The relief she feels when he shift so their shoulders rub sickens her. "So all in all, what a fuck-truck of a mission."

"Yeah," she manages, glad that her voice doesn't tremble.

"Fuck-truck of epic proportions."

"Don't need to convince me." Natasha lets out a small laugh, which she's surprised she can do because she _can't fucking breathe._

Tony gets up and stretches, but then he stills suddenly. There's a rigid tension as he takes her in. "Romanoff…"

Ah, shit, he's not going to leave. "Yes Stark?" she asks sweetly, deliberately meeting his gaze, firm and steady even though she's anything but.

Without warning, he reaches down and grabs her hand, letting go just as quickly. "You're cold." It's a statement.

"That a crime?" she manages. If he wants to keep talking, she's not going to be able to. The effort it's taking for her voice not to tremble is immense.

"Why are you shaking?" he demands.

No answer, just what she hopes is an intimidating glare back. She can't muster up the presence of mind to keep talking.

It doesn't work. Tony crouches down in front of her, his head at the same height as her chest. "What's up, hot stuff?" He's looking up at her with concern, and she knows he's crouching because he sees her as a distressed Dom; he's trying to give her comfort in the way a sub would, but all she wants is the touch and she grabs onto his shoulders. It only concerns him more. "Romanoff. Hate to say this, but you're kind of worrying me here. What's wrong?"

She lets out a shuddering breath, forcing herself to let him go.

"Are you okay?"

Natasha nods, unable to speak. The world around her is spinning on its axis, leaving her dizzy and off-kilter. The blood roars in her ears. She wants to go home. She wants Clint. Even though Clint probably won't even want to see her after she _lied_ to him…

"Are you- oh my God…" Tony's voice is barely above a whisper. "Fuck, are you- you're _dropping_?"

In response, Natasha closes her eyes and turns into the wall, too far down to care about composing a response.

"Natasha, what the hell?" Tony breathes. Then, in a moment that deserves way more credit than she usually gives him, he climbs back into the seat next to her and pulls her into him, his fingers rubbing at her shoulder.

She doesn't fight the movement.

"How is this happening?" Tony's confused, but he's smart, so she doesn't bother croaking out an answer. "Okay, okay, that doesn't matter. Easy, just breathe it out. You're fine, just breathe."

The touch is helping but the voice is all _wrong_ , and it's just adding to her splintered mind. Everything aches. He's not a Dom; his voice is just something else she has to listen to, has to force herself to pick her way through, heavy and leaden.

Tony's still speaking, doing his best to speak as low as possible. "Just hang in there, alright, I'll-"

"Stark, everything good back there?" Steve's voice crackles in over the intercom. Perceptive motherfucker. He probably saw them on the cockpit camera and thought Tony was dropping. Natasha's never helped Tony through a drop before, reason enough to care. "Nat? Is he alright?"

Tony pulls back from her slightly. "Should I tell him?" he whispers. When she doesn't answer- _no, you can't tell him, nobody can know_ \- he runs a hand over her hair. "Natasha, can Cap know?"

For the love of all that is holy, she nods. What's the point, anyways? Stark can't keep a secret to save his life, and they're all going to find out soon enough. More than that, she needs- she needs the balm of a soothing Dom to ease her aching, fractured mind.

Tony's hit the intercom button. "Cap, Natasha's dropping."

There's a few beats of dead-silence. They both wait, Natasha's breaths coming ragged and gasping, before the intercom crackles again. This time he's projecting to the entire jet; they can hear the faint echoes of the noise coming through in the main compartment. "Banner, I need one of you up here to fly the plane." His voice is emotionless, and Natasha wonders dimly if he's going to be pissed at her.

Half a minute later, the door to the cabin opens and closes almost silently, and then Steve is beside them.

"You're sure?" he asks Tony, who replies with a see-for-yourself gesture. "Thank you for taking care of her." Tony flushes with pride at the appreciation, even moreso when Cap gives him a quick squeeze. "Good boy." The sub always was too easy around praise. "Go sit with Thor."

"Aw, come on," Tony whines.

"This isn't a zoo exhibit for you to watch. Go." His tone brooks no argument.

Tony pulls away from her and Natasha wants to cry because even his arm around her had been keeping her poised on the edge of the precipice, but now she feels like she's _suffocating_ , and she just wants Clint…

Then there's a warm body next to her; another, heavier arm over her shoulders and curling around her back. Steve pulls her close, almost into his lap, his second arm resting gently on her neck, keeping her hot forehead tucked into his shoulder. Standard sub-hold, but it feels fucking _incredible_. She lets out a long, shuddering breath. "Hey, Nat. It's okay, I got you. Easy, you're okay, I got you." He's whispering soft assurances into her ear, and with every tremble of her limbs she can feel the distress seeping out of her, leaving her in the darkness with Steve's soothing presence.

"There you go," Steve praises- and _fuck_ , now she's reacting like Tony to some simple goddamned praise? Fuck being a sub, fuck how needy subs get when they drop- and his hands gently brush over her matted hair. "I'm here, you're okay. I want you to keep breathing for me, alright? Just how you're doing. That's it, just like that."

The tightness in Natasha's chest slowly begins to untangle itself, twisting into a new sensation that it takes her a while to realize is security. For the first time in her life, the person with her during a drop is comforting her, not abusing her, and a warm feeling of safety begins to envelope her.

Steve's hand rubs soothing circles on her lower back, his other hand still carding through her hair. "Easy, there you go… I'm here, don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. We can stay as long as you like…" She buries her face into him, the comfort almost too good to be true. Steve gives her an analyzing look. "You dropped pretty hard, didn't you?"

A nod into his shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

She shakes her head, her eyes hot.

"Does Clint know?"

Natasha pauses, then nods again. Shakes her head. Nods. Unsure what he's asking, and panic begins to well up because that means-

"Hey, hey, calm down, Nat." Steve's pitched his voice low. "I'm not mad. I promise I'm not angry, and you're not in trouble." An edge of steel to his tone. "Clint, I can't guarantee."

"He didn't know!" she interjects, because Clint's already going to be pissed as hell about lying to him, and if she gets him in trouble with Cap, he'll kill her. "He didn't know I would drop, I- I didn't-"

"But he knew you're a sub?"

"A little. Kind of…" she hedges.

"Coulson?"

"No."

Steve makes an exasperated noise, but when her eyes fly up to his, he shakes his head and drops a light kiss onto her forehead. A look of surprise flits across his face, almost as if he wasn't expecting her to let him, but she's so starved of touch that she doesn't give a shit. "We're going to have to deal with this, you know that right?" She nods miserably. "But not right now."

They stay like that for the rest of the flight, Natasha curled into Steve and cursing herself for her inability to pull away.

When the wheels touch down, Steve lets her make the first move to uncurl away from him. She's embarrassed, not meeting his reassuring gaze. Tony's obviously told Thor and Banner, from the way the two Doms are giving her her space. Natasha walks ahead of them all, refusing to look at either Steve or Tony as they step of the plane and-

Fuck.

Seriously, Tuesday the 19ths.

Clint's standing there, a few bandages circling his arm and his head and a little pale, but otherwise appearing fine. Standing next to him is fucking Coulson. She shoots Steve a glare, knowing he must have called him, which the soldier steadfastly ignores.

Natasha can tell from the way Clint's bouncing on the balls of his feet that he's been briefed on the mission details, including what they found in the dorm room. He's worried she dropped, from the apprehensive glances he keeps shooting her and Coulson.

Well, it's a little too fucking late to be worried about that.

"So, I take it we need to have a little discussion," Coulson says. Natasha feels a well of guilt bubble up in the pit of her stomach. She quashes it down. Clint's entire body sags, his fear confirmed.

Thor nods happily, seemingly uncaring about the sombre mood in the room. "I agree! Natasha's Bearing has changed. Shall we discuss now, perhaps, over drinks?"

"Uh, why don't you and Tony come with me…" Banner pushes the god into the next room, and practically has to drag Tony along with them.

"Why us?" Stark whines.

"Because this is about Natasha, her handler, her team leader, and the one person who obviously knew something. Come _on_ , Tony…"

And they're gone.

Coulson doesn't beat around the bush. "A sub, Natasha? Is this true?"

She nods. Goddamn it, she's fucking non-verbal today. "Yes," she bites out.

Coulson's normally-calm demeanor is crumbling, his jaw clenched. "How could you not tell any of us?!"

"Sorry," Natasha replies automatically, moving on auto-pilot to take a step behind Steve. She's still in the final jittery stages of a drop, and she can't take him yelling at her. Clint glares at Coulson.

"I don't even- _how_?" The switch rounds on Clint. "Have you been helping her through drops? Why has she never dropped on the jet after a mission like Stark?"

"I- no," Clint stammers. Natasha wants to bang her head against the wall, knowing he's just gotten them both in a lot more trouble. He hastens to cover it up. "I mean, she's never dropped before. On the jet, I mean."

"I gathered. I'm asking _why_."

"I don't know, ask her!" And Clint fucking throws her under the bus like the damn traitor he is.

"Natasha?"

"I don't know," she lies smoothly. Never mind both Coulson and Steve's number one rule for the team is no lying. She can deal with that later. "I usually have it under control." She pauses, weighing her words. "Red Room taught me techniques."

"Funny." Coulson's voice is icy Dom, and she shrinks back involuntarily. "I would've thought a simple-enough evacuation, albeit a surprise one, couldn't have ruined that excelled control, then."

Steve glances between her and Coulson, then lays a calming hand on her arm. She wrenches away from him. "Okay, okay. This obviously isn't going anywhere. Barton, we know she hasn't been dropping. There's no way Coulson would have missed every single one in the last ten years."

Clint shrugs sullenly.

"How's she been doing it?" Coulson barks. "I need an answer, now!"  
"I don't know!"

"Barton, you're only making it worse for yourself!"

A pause.

"Substop," Clint admits through gritted teeth.

The room is silent. Then-

"Substop?!" Steve explodes. "You've been giving her Substop?"

Clint rushes to defend them. "It wasn't so bad when we first-"

"That was ten years ago!" Coulson is furious, his breathing heavy. "It was still illegal!"

"Yeah, but it was just considered a soft drug, so-"

"The crackdown started six years ago because of all the risks, you _know_ that!"

"I know, I know, but she didn't have any side effects and we both thought-"

"Enough." Coulson swings around to Natasha. "And you ran out?"

She nods, causing Clint to glower at her.

"Seriously Nat? You lied to me!"

Natasha's head is spinning; it's bad enough to have a Dom angry with you on a normal day, but coming out of a major stress-induced drop to have a Dom and two pissed off switches yelling at her is making it difficult to think.

"I'm sorry," she tries, a steady mantra of _they're mad they're mad they're mad_ pulsing in her mind. "I didn't want- I thought…"

"Don't even try, Barton," Coulson snaps. "Her lying to you about being out of Substop is not the main issue here. In fact, it's not even a minor issue. It's not even _an issue_."

"I'm sorry." Clint rubs at his jaw, the characteristic hunched posture of a sub in trouble overtaking him. Natasha knows exactly how he's feeling, the guilt and the acute disappointment swirling in her own gut, not to mention the hard lump in her throat. "I'm honestly sorry."

Fuck being a sub.

Coulson sighs, laying a hand on the back of Clint's neck. "Okay." He steels his shoulders. "You want to deal with this now?"

And when Clint nods miserably, Coulson gestures to the elevator. "Go on. Your quarters. I'll meet you in five."

"Yes sir".

Natasha feels the familiar rush of relief, just as she does every time Coulson or Steve punishes Clint. It's widely considered an abusive practice to leave a guilty sub, the pain and self-flagellation a facet of emotional abuse as laid out in 'Sub Rights' volume II. The Red Room had done that to her, as punishment… she clearly remembers the anger over minor occurrences, with no respite for weeks, until the sub in question was practically insane from the guilt.

The picture frame on the coffee table is shaking- _earthquake_ , she thinks, until she realizes it's her own trembling obscuring her vision. She's shaking, when had she started shaking?

"Natasha," comes Steve's low soothing voice, and she's trembling so much she's making the two of them shake. "Calm down, I got you."

Coulson glances at his watch. "I have to get to Clint. Can you deal with her?" He motions to the elevator. "If she needs it, you can send her up to me once I'm done with Clint."

Steve replies, she knows he does because she sees his mouth move, but she's too busy trying to ground herself to hear him. She knows what he's going to do. He's going to yell at her about some made-up offense- or even _this_ offense, because God knows she deserves it- and then leave her, and fuck, she knows that's not logical, but she can't help it and she thought she was _over_ this, but these fucking sub emotions…

Steve takes one look at her face and leads them to the couch, pulling her completely into his lap this time and beginning his reassurances again. "You're okay, you're okay… I've got you. I got you, just relax, you're here with me…"

It feels so fucking good to be wrapped up in a Dom's arms, to have a clear voice in her head to cut through all the sharp pieces.

It's a while before Natasha calms down, and the first thing out of her mouth is "I'm sorry" because she feels like she has to make up for it.

He shushes her. "No, you don't need to apologize. I understand."

"Are you angry?" She _hates_ how needy the question makes her sound, but fuck, she is needy. She feels like Tony. Fucking sub biology.

He hesitates. "I'm disappointed in both of you. Not mad."

"I'm sorry," she repeats.

Steve nods this time. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit," she mumbles, and he barks out a short laugh.

"I bet you do." He lifts her wrist to his mouth and kisses it gently. "Nat, do you feel bad, though?"

Her breath catches in her throat, because what he's really asking is _Nat, do you need me to punish you?_ And no Dom has ever, ever thought about what she needs or what she wants. It's not like subs like being spanked. Fuck, she hates it. It's embarrassing and vulnerable and she's sore afterwards but the alleviation of the guilt is what matters. And the comfort afterwards, but she's never had that. If they were feeling merciful in the Red Room when she fucked up, she was thrown unceremoniously over her trainer's knee, his hand came down a dozen times and she was up again, back into the ring, face streaked with tears. Or, you know, she had her arm broken for screwing up. Among other things.

Steve takes her silence as the affirmative, and makes to stand up, but Natasha clings to his suit. "No."

"No, you don't feel bad?" He's taken aback, she can tell.

She does, but that shit feeling that comes after a stress-induced drop. She feels awful about lying to Clint. Steve can't deal with that. The Substop… not so much. In her mind, it was a necessary evil. She never had any orders not to take it, and isn't everything they do illegal and dangerous anyways? So she shakes her head. Clint's upset, but her moral compass just swings further south than his, she supposes.

Steve wraps his arm around her again and they just sit there. Natasha knows this is a new complication. She hasn't dropped in ten fucking years, and now she'll be like Tony. Weak. Her emotions are already all over the place, linked to what Coulson, Clint and Steve think of her, and it's been one day.

Fuck being a sub.


End file.
